


In the Hands of a Bitter Man

by Simply_Isnt_On



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Character Death, Other, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/pseuds/Simply_Isnt_On
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock looks back on his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hands of a Bitter Man

**Author's Note:**

> So I fell asleep with my head facing the wrong end of my bed, and when I woke up this was kinda floating around. It didn't turn out the way I thought it would, but I hope it's good all the same. :D

I didn't mean to be a killer. Not when I started out. But thing is, plans never go the way you want them, do they? I remember the first time the world narrowed for me.

 

***

Imagine looking around, and all you see is what is. I won't bother to describe the concept that you don't notice everything you could do, I'm sure you know it already. But me? I  _see_. I see everything, I know what that scuff mark means and why she's walking on the right instead of the left and why the man in that shop refuses to give change for a tenner but not a twenty. No, don't look, there are no signs, you won't see it.

You might think me particularly lucky to see everything, or as near as any man can. But it's a curse. It's like someone took a rock concert and set it to blare into my head at every hour of the day and night. Every bit, every scratch, every fold, every scuff, it all means something. And sometimes I'll do anything to stop it.

Sometimes, there are ways to make my mind quiet for awhile. A minute, a quarter-hour, sometimes a whole day. But it always comes back. The deductions, the noticing everything there is to notice, the sheer  _white noise_  of it, pounding down on me, filling my consciousness until it's all I can do not to tear my hair out and claw at my eyes to make them stop, stop  _noticing_ , _please._  It wouldn't help, though.

During my time at uni, I found a way to quiet the din, dull the edges of the world in the form of morphine, and alternately a way to sharpen everything, force it into order with my mind through cocaine. And for awhile, I was almost content. But then I was thrown out of school, and there was less for me to do, and I needed more, please, please, something to focus on, something to do, make it stop,  _please._  There is no God; any truly benevolent deity would have stepped in at that point, done something.

So my doses rose. Never too much, I wasn't suicidal, just enough to make it stop hurting. Until enough wasn't enough. Until the day I finally managed to shut the world up, made everything silent, and it was absolute bliss. 

I woke up the next day in hospital, with my brother's disapproving face looking down at me, and the world pounding and thumping in my head and  _shouting_  at me, louder than usual, as if to punish me for trying to shut it out. I hid my face, closed my eyes, tried to block it out again. Two days later I was released.

Twice more I overdosed, and each time the world was louder than before, stronger, more painful in all it's intensity. Sometimes I would wake screaming to make it stop, and it would help until my voice gave out and the sound rushed in on my senses. Just before the third incident, I'd found my way onto a crime scene and deduced the murderer aloud in under a minute. The constable on duty, Lestrade, was so impressed that he followed me. Some would say that was lucky- I collapsed three blocks away in a skip. I say it was hateful.

But after that, Lestrade told me that if I stayed clean, I would be allowed to consult with the Yard when the cases got to be too much. And just like that, I had found my new drug. Because when I was on a crime scene, deducing, and then sometimes chasing the crime lords and petty over-enthusiastic boyfriends across London, the world would narrow. It was like tunnel vision, where most of the world would keep spinning by, and I would only see what I needed to keep the thread. Absolutely glorious. 

The violin came in handy, helped me sort out the different strains of sound filling my mind and threatening to take over, pounding down on me. Through my music, I was able to comb through the threads, card them, untangle them, and then my mind would slide smoothly for awhile like a well-oiled machine, before something stuck and made everything discordant again.

Sometimes, very rarely, there were people who would quiet the world a little. That Chinese girl, Soo Lin Yao, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, to a certain extent, possess the ability to soothe my mind. I can tolerate them. Well. Could. John, too, had a soothing presence, and often having him in the room with me was enough to calm my thoughts to the extent that I sometimes fell asleep while he read his evening paper.

All of this, of course, was before I discovered the best way to make my mind stop. No, I won't deny it, I've already been tried and found guilty- and rightly so, or I wouldn't be here giving my statement. The best was to hold someone's life in your hands. It started with babies- no. I never committed infanticide, whatever you think of me. But they are so fragile, so helpless, and whenever for some reason I found myself holding one, I would find myself inexplicably at peace. Everything would center on that face, calm and serene even when it was screaming bloody murder. It really is a miracle that those parents got their children back. But I wouldn't have been a good father, anyways. 

I got off track. Apologies. Yes, I know, I haven't got much time, I'm almost done. As I was saying, holding someone's life in my hands, being the only thing stopping or driving their death, it's a heady feeling, any serial killer will tell you freely. But it also forced all my focus onto one point. One person, one face, one pulse, in my hands. The other sounds faded, and the note of that person alone became the only thing I could hear. 

You asked why I murdered good people? Why I murdered my friends? Because their notes were clean, were tight and strong and magnificent when heard solo. And I couldn't get enough. Oh, I covered it up well enough. It was only when I went for Lestrade that anyone began to suspect, and by the time I got to John- his was the longest, I drew it out, the fear and strength and  _no no no don't please Sherlock we're friends I'll help you through this no-_  Mycroft had figured it out. They almost saved him. Mycroft, I know you'll watch this one day. You almost did it. He nearly survived. He would have, had he not that unfortunate allergy to penicillin. But what's done is done.

And now, I'm making this video so that the world knows. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, all of you. I'm not sorry. I would do it again. But I am sorry that you couldn't do as much for me without dying. Because now the world is closing in again, and none of you are here to make it quieter. It's jangling. I'm not allowed a violin here, nor, understandably, drugs. But no matter. It shouldn't last much longer, they'll come for me soon. 

How does one end one of these things? I can't very well say see you later. Tell you what, I'll say this: 

Moriarty, your threat was well-aimed. But wrong. I didn't need you to burn my heart, because my heart is made of fire and burns everyone it touches.

This is the last testament of Sherlock Holmes, given freely and under no threat.

( _The door behind subject opens, officials enter. Subject offers no resistance, allows hands to be cuffed behind back before he is led out of room. Camera flickers, then goes black.)_

_***_

File Name: Holmes, S.

Contains: Last testament.

Summary of Contents: The video here recorded contains the last words spoken by one Sherlock Holmes. Immediately after recording this, his sentence, capital punishment, was carried out via lethal injection. Subject offered no resistance. 

Time of death: 22:19

Date of death: 7-9-39

**Author's Note:**

> Brit-picks and con-crits welcome, this is unbetad and brand-new.
> 
> Title from the song "Any Other World" by Mika.


End file.
